


Blackout

by rowankhanna



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Cute, Drinking cocoa, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluffy, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tea, newt drinks tea like a true brit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 02:29:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8692870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowankhanna/pseuds/rowankhanna
Summary: All the lights in Newt's house go out; he worries that Credence is going to have a panic attack and tries to distract him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the first fanfiction I've done in years. I'm always worried that I'll never get the characters right and betray the original work, but when I went out to see Fantastic Beasts, I knew I had to write something for it, so this is what I came up with! I hope you enjoy it, and please tell me if you do; I'd love to hear from you and your thoughts on how I did!
> 
> Newt is one of my favourite characters of all time. Ever. He makes me so happy.

Credence is afraid of the dark.

It’s not because anything bad has happened to him in the dark particularly, but because when he’s in the dark, he’s alone, with just the whirlwind of his thoughts to keep him company, and his thoughts are buzzing and teeming with hatred and despair and loathing and they consume him, drowning him, choking him and rendering him of all self-control.

Newt always keeps the lights on for him, whispering _Lumos_ if even the slightest dark creeps in, always keeping an eye out. He hasn’t seen all of Credence’s panic attacks, but he’s seen most of them, seized-up things where there’s nothing he can do but ask Credence to count with him, down from ten, to count the freckles on his face – to focus on anything but what’s eating him inside, and then when Credence doesn’t feel so much like the world is going to end, he makes him some cocoa. He’s never been much of a cocoa drinker, Newt, infinitely preferring tea, but he knows that there’s not much better for Credence than the warmth that a cup of cocoa spreads through his chest, so makes them faithfully, routinely, passing hot mugs into Credence’s cold hands.

Newt hasn’t left him alone tonight; leaving Credence alone is something he doesn’t like to do, fearful that he’ll set the boy off rocking back and forth, and he’s curled up on his chair, reviewing his latest intricately illustrated pages when all the lights in the house go out with an electronic hiss. Panicked, Newt lights his wand right away and proceeds to light all the candles in the sitting room, keeping Credence distracted with his action, and he tries to think of something, anything, to keep Credence from getting to himself. He worries constantly about it: Credence can be lost in an instant, one word slipped up or something in the room a slight reminder and he’s gone, the pain on his face contorting Newt’s heart as he slips away.

“What’s your favourite animal?” asks Newt, partly out of general curiosity and mostly out of protective instinct, though if asking questions counts as being protective, he’ll be protective all the time.

“Of yours, or...?”

“Hm, no. Of the ones you Muggles have; curious creatures they are indeed.” The discussion begins to light Newt’s eyes: he could lose himself in a conversation about animals as easily as Credence can lose himself to his memories. He loves them all.

Credence thinks about it; he’s not sure. He’s never really seen any animals bar horses, though he’s heard of others. He doesn’t have much worldly knowledge, and his knowledge of animals is particularly limited – he has to keep himself from going where his thoughts are going, to why his knowledge is so dirt poor – so he only really has a few choices. “Bears. I like bears.”

“Bears?” Newt encourages him.

“Big furry animals with claws. Some live where it’s cold and some live here, and the ones that live in the cold have white fur and the ones that live here have brown fur. And... the white ones like fish.” Credence is quite proud of his recall and a smile tugs on his lips, calm beginning to play in Newt’s soul.

“I see,” he says softly. He tries to think of another question, and he begins to scramble, hopelessly scrambling in his mind for more when Credence comes over, sitting down next to him and grabbing his hand, clasping it close. 

“Don’t let it take me,” he begs.

“I won’t,” Newt replies, keeping his voice carefully tempered. “Just listen to me, Credence. Focus on me. Tell me... what’s your favourite place in New York? Where do you like to go?”

“Anywhere but home,” he says so earnestly that Newt wants to stroke his cheek sympathetically, but he keeps one hand on his lit wand and the other in Credence’s. “I like New York. I think it’s nice, and I think that it’s beautiful.”

“Good,” Newt breathes, “me too. I think that it’s full of life.” He links his fingers with Credence’s, running his thumb over the boy’s knuckle. “Just like you.”

Credence’s breath catches in his throat, surprised by the softness of Newt’s open expression, and that’s all it takes for Newt to vanish in front of him as he begins to drown, the darkness swallowing him up – really, Credence couldn’t pretend it wasn’t always there, omnipresent, always hurting – and he can hear something, someone, Newt, but he’s washed out by Mary Lou screaming at him, screaming that he’s _useless_ and _sinful_ and he feels the sharp pain of being beaten, the voice beginning to become Graves’s, screaming _“Squib!”_ , full of rage and hatred when something breaks through the dark, an immensely sharp white flash.

“Gah!” Credence lifts his hands to his face, letting go of Newt’s, blocking out the flash, but the dark is receding from the forefront of his mind, leaving just a few wet tears on his face and a feeling of not being entirely all there, a bit of him still trapped.

“I’m sorry,” says Newt, “you weren’t responding when I asked you to count with me, so...” He trails off. “Can you keep focusing on me?”

“Yes,” is what Credence says, and though he tries to hide it, the syllable leaks with his desire, his want to focus on Newt and nothing else, to forget the darkness and just know the man in front of him. He’s the only good thing Credence has. “Ask me something.”

Newt hums, thoughtful. He tries to think of a real question, a good question, as he asks a distraction. “Will you take my hand again?”

Credence does, tentatively, worried that somehow Newt will crumble away under his touch, but he doesn’t, just holds back, smiling his incredible smile. “Thank you,” he says, then his eyes drift as he tries to pluck a question from somewhere, anywhere. “Why don’t you ask me a question?”

Credence is taken aback by the responsibility; him? Ask a question of Newt? It’s almost too much; he shakes his head. “I’ve already asked you everything I want to know.”

“Ask me something you don’t want to know,” Newt ventures, regretting the question as soon as it leaves his mouth, worrying that Credence might take it badly, but he doesn’t, looking just as lost in thought as Newt had been only moments earlier, lost in better thoughts than his usual fare.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” He doesn’t want to know because he doesn’t want to pry, but Credence is curious, inspired by Newt’s sense of seeming to want to know everything about the beasts he keeps. Even asking the question makes Credence squirm, feeling stupid for daring to ask such a stupid thing.

“Oh, heavens, no,” Newt replies, chortling. “Nobody would date me.”

“That’s not true,” Credence argues. “You’re a good man – you’re kind, and funny, and welcoming...”

“I annoy people.”

“You don’t annoy me.”

“I think you may be an exception,” Newt says with a half-smile. “Is there anything else you wouldn’t like to know?”

Credence muses. “What’s your favourite kind of tea?”

At this, Newt just chuckles. “I like every kind of tea.” He pauses, then, “how about you?” 

“I like the tea you make. Mine isn’t as good.”

“When your entire country drinks nothing but the stuff, you get good at it.” He squeezes the boy’s hand. “Keep with me, Credence, and you’ll be a tea expert in no time.” Credence laughs a little at this, a gentle and disarming sound. Newt’s eyes widen in surprise, then he beams adoringly back, pleased that Credence is okay, his fear cast back. “Should we make some now?”

“Okay,” Credence agrees, Newt leading him wand-lit through to the kitchen, a small and cosy room that always smells of home baking, even though Credence only bakes occasionally and when Newt can guide him, always speaking fondly of a New York bakery – Kowalski’s – when he does. “Um... Mr. Scamander.”

“Newt,” Newt corrects automatically, a small daily ritual. 

“Can I have a cocoa?”

“Of course you can. Could you pass me a mug, then?” Credence obliges, picking up his favourite mug – or, the one that isn’t Newt’s, which he’s grown to adopt as his own, painted delicately by someone with a picture of what Newt calls a Hippogriff. Newt’s own is plain white and helplessly ink-stained. He passes his mug to Newt, who cheerily prepares the cocoa. “Credence, could you make my tea for me?”

“Are you sure you’d like me to do that?” Credence asks warily, knowing that his drink brewing skills are less than satisfactory.

“Of course,” Newt says, looking up and over his shoulder. “The tea you make is fine tea. You oughtn’t worry about it.”

Credence says nothing, flustered, and gets on with making Newt’s tea while the cheerful magizoologist hums beside him, making Credence’s cocoa mostly with magic. He wonders if that’s why it always tastes so good, and why the taste seems to bizarrely remind him of Newt, as though he could have a taste. Magic confuses Credence deeply, and he wishes he had a better handle on it, considering how much he loves it.

“Here we are!” Newt waves his wand with a flourish for effect and passes the cocoa over to Credence, who panics, nowhere near finishing Newt’s tea and he almost drops everything in his hands in a fluster, worry bubbling up from his belly. Newt reaches over and touches his hand for a moment. “Take your time. Tea can’t be rushed.”

It takes Credence a little while but he finishes Newt’s tea and passes it over, a swap of drinks, and he’s glad it took him a while, as the cocoa is still piping hot when he sips it, burning his top lip. Newt doesn’t seem to notice the heat whatsoever, elegantly sipping the tea, no faces made like Credence’s, who has to resort to blowing on the rippling surface of the cocoa. 

“Don’t you have a spell for this?” he pleads. 

“I could freeze it solid,” Newt offers teasingly. He pauses and takes another sip. “Are you feeling alright now, Credence?”

“Yes, thank you,” the boy replies, flushed with warmth from the drink, still too hot even though he’s been furiously trying to cool it with his breath for a short while. 

“Good,” Newt replies. “That’s good.” He leans forward, putting a hand behind Credence’s head to kiss his forehead, lips so gentle it’s like he’s barely there, a soft whisper against his skin. “This tea is very good. I think you’re learning.”

“I think you’re a good teacher.” 

Credence is so lost that he doesn’t even notice the dark around him, the thing he hates so much. He doesn’t notice the thoughts in the back of his mind, evil and tormenting. He notices the taste of chocolate in his mouth and the beauty of Newt’s smile, aimed at him, and everything, everything that has ever hurt Credence melts away into nothingness, replaced only by his affections for Newt, for London, for a life without pain. The dark can’t survive; Newt is a torch, full of light.


End file.
